Puzzle Pieces
by Ekoaleko
Summary: Why did I enjoy and indulge in this mistake? That instead of being swept away by the crashing tide of bitterness, the purity of the ocean of my conscience permeated the impurity, and the deeper I pushed the knife, the happier I grew? Part two. Mary x Gray
1. Part One: Sanctuary

_Part One:_

**Sanctuary**

I remember when everything used to be such a big deal to me.

When you're young, you're so innocent and sweet that you can only see fractions of the bigger picture, claiming you know what you're doing and working at that little piece of the picture you've got. You live it, you live _for _it, and then you realize you've been missing out on what's really important.

Maybe it isn't innocence. Maybe I was just naïve.

Because I remember it all: I remember waking up the second the alarm clock rang and flinging myself out of bed before it could make its second round. I remember hurrying to get dressed…delicately and quickly sliding into the outfit I'd prepared the night before. I remember bolting and tripping my way downstairs, eating the simple breakfast my mother made me every morning, and chewing like I could never chew again just so I could get out the door a split-minute quicker.

I remember pecking my dad on the cheek and then rushing outside—kind of weaving between buildings—as I jammed the key into the building right beside my house. When I pulled the key back out, my hands wringing and itching, I yanked at the doorknob. The instant the door flew open I would feel a sense of happiness and completion I couldn't feel anywhere else. My eyes were met with brand new wooden shelves, a shiny desk and chair set up for me, just me, to sit in, and even a duplicated second floor. Best of all, though, were the mounds and mounds of books, the stories, the tales, and the lives that had been published in those manila pages—emotions only able to be expressed in writing.

This was my library I was seeing. _My _library. My sanctuary. It used to make me so, so happy. It was my pride and joy…my life, my obsession.

I suppose you're beginning to notice the past tenses here.

Two years later, I sat at the desk in my library, reading a book. Nothing out of the ordinary…but that was just the point: it was all the same. Nothing had changed. I hadn't changed. I was reading about other fictional people's lives more frequently than I was actively living my own. And most importantly, I hadn't found the bigger piece of the picture that could complete me.

Of course, I hadn't realized all this on my own, despite how my father had always praised me on my knowledge and studies—my intelligence, my logic; my mother proud of my analogies, my strategic thoughts, and my sensitive mind. I always believed I was the smartest person in the village. It was true, I was well-read—in more ways than one—but I had help finding my own truth. One person assisted me, reached to me through the darkness I surrounded myself in, dug me up from the sheltered hole in which I resided, and thawed the cold mask that had grown accustomed to my face.

I still blush as I think of it, how he did this all for _me_. Me, Mary, the small-town librarian, who had nothing to give him in return but a small stock of books and a quiet place to read them at.

Because there was never, ever a reason.

"Hello." That was the only word he said to me as he opened the door to my sanctuary, as he took a step, with double meaning, into my life. He was short-spoken, as was I—and for that, I was very thankful.

At first, things were a bit awkward. I shot him a brief smile, welcomed him, and then returned to the book I cradled, trying to lose myself in it. But for the first time in a very long time, I could not concentrate on those ink-drizzled pages. Instead, I watched as he, unlike many others who visited the library on very rare occasions, quietly settled in with his own book. He sat at a square table pushed up against the wall, his back almost to me, as if he was avoiding me.

I don't know why, but I was curious. I peeked up at him over the top of my book, watched with great interest as he took a long time to take in the words on the pages before turning them, his tan fingers sliding down the page's length before flipping it to the other end of the spine—as if delicately. I found myself absorbed, almost obsessed, with his tiny and precise movements.

I jumped in exaggerated shock when he suddenly pushed his chair out lightly and stood up, an immeasurable amount of time later. The book in front of me collapsed onto the wooden floor, open, on a page I had not marked. My cheeks burned as I sat in uncomfortable silence, staring down at the fallen book, and trying to decide whether or not I should pick it up. I didn't know why it was such a difficult option, why I didn't just scoop down and grab it like I would've if I were all alone.

"I'm sorry, did I scare you?" There was an enormous helping of sarcasm embedded in his deep, boyish voice, but when I looked up at his face, still inexplicably mortified, I saw it suddenly change.

His raised, rough eyebrows descended slowly, shaping his deep blue eyes, which studied me with a new expression. The half-smirk that raised one end of his lips fell, not quite into a frown, but into a contemplative pout. His mood swung from sarcastic to pensive in an instant.

"U-um," I stuttered, my heart pounding in my chest. For some strange reason, I was light-headed. I swept my eyes away from his, already having received more attention than I usually did in a day, and bent over to retrieve the book, but suddenly something warm and rough pressed into the back of my hand. I snapped away out of reflexive unfamiliarity.

"Sorry." He still had that same, rough tone that matched his touch, but it was different somehow. He didn't seem bitter but…sarcastic? I couldn't see his face because his unruly blue baseball cap covered it. It shifted and I didn't look in time to see the book land with a smack on the tabletop.

"Oh," I uttered in dazed alarm. His eyes were still hidden, but his chin was tilted down, staring at the cover of my book. "Thanks," I said, finding my voice, which broke embarrassingly.

He looked up with a snap, and he seemed to share my shyness. The cloud of coldness that had drifted above him had disappeared so quickly. "No problem," he muttered, and he opened his mouth again, as if to say more. But he simply pivoted and stumbled out the door, a quiet "bye" resonating in the still air.

I stared after him, blinking less often than usual, before looking down reflexively. Bold pink Trebuchet MSprintsmiled back at me, spelling the words "_How to Write_." I collapsed back into the chair, feeling foolish for whatever reason, and wondered why it had caught his eye. Then, in a rush of anxiety, my head jerked and I scanned a pile of lined papers at the corner of my desk, and fortunately, they were turned facedown. My "book."

I took a deep breath, surveying the room for anything out-of-place, and was startled to find it was five to seven: way past closing time. I had never, not in my whole two years, been late closing. I tucked the unprofessional pages of my book into a small drawer and sauntered out before I could allow myself to realize why this was.

That was day one.

The rest of the afternoons were mostly the same, though less eventful, as if dropping a book could count as an event. He murmured hello, then made a beeline to "his" table in the corner, dropping into one of the four chairs tucked into it. Sometimes he left a pile of books there, and instead of merely taking the one on the top, he would shuffle through them and then pick one meticulously, as if they'd been sorted. I continued to be distracted, unable to fully assess the words on the page in front of me, and a few times I'd seen his brow furrow as well. An instinctive part of me believed he felt the same frustrated, unexplained emotions as I did, but another, more realistic part believed he was just very into the book.

But one day, and though I couldn't remember the exact date, it couldn't have been far from the time we met—we had our second conversation.

He was coming into the library, but it was different this time. He did not hold his usual calm, fixed, relaxed expression. The same tranquil air that normally followed him was not present; a smile could not be seen on his face when he entered. In fact, even his "hello" seemed a bit muffled and reluctant.

But like he always did, he trailed off to the table in the corner, and suddenly I felt deeply upset and insignificant. I don't know why; after all, was I expecting him to come to me and tell me everything that happened on the spot? Perhaps it would be that way if he were my close friend, if we talked often, if we uttered any words to each other besides "hello" and "have a nice day." Yet I didn't even know his name, and I doubted he knew mine, so we simply sat in silence, and read—at least, he did.

The lack of answers further frustrated me. I could not read a single page without needing to flip back and reread the previous one to understand the situation. I didn't know why I cared what troubled him, or yearned so badly for him to share his thoughts with me, but I did. And this led to the impossible happening: I asked him what was wrong.

I hadn't heard my own words, but I hoped they hadn't shook or seemed uncertain in any way at all. After all, the worst he could do was simply ignore me, but if I thought about _that _I would probably just give up altogether, so I kept on hoping.

His head rose slowly, and his eyes seemed wider when he looked at me, so the words must have been adequate.

We gazed at each other for the longest moment, and I thought he would never reply. But before I could look down to hide the tickle of pink spread across my cheeks, I heard the familiar, quietly firm voice I found myself often replaying in my head. "Nothing to concern yourself with; my grandfather's just been a bit of a pain."

Reading so many unrated narratives had left my mind highly creative and overdramatic. Something along the lines of abusive flashed into my mind, but there was not a visible wound on his body, and I pushed the thought away before I could voice it.

"How so?" I pressed on, surprised I could keep my voice levelled. It felt like there was a suction cup at the end of my throat, weakening my words as they escaped.

"Well." He still seemed a bit surprised that I was the one who had initiated conversation, but he continued, carefully. "You see, I'm a…blacksmith, in training, that is, and I'm not very good at what I do." The lack of apparent confidence in his voice surprised me. He had never caught me as conceited with what he did for a living, but he sounded so weak, so derailed,that I was forced to take notice.

"I'm my grandfather's apprentice, basically. He taught me the basics, but he refuses to teach me anything more." His voice went mockingly deep, like a growl, and I jumped infinitesimally. "You're always jumping into everything you try. You'll never fully learn the art of blacksmithing if you're so pig-headed. It took me years, and you think you can master it in days." His voice turned normal again, that same bitter voice I'd heard the first day. "I'll never be good enough for him. I'll never be the same as his son. That's all he's expecting of me; he wants me to be his shadow. He doesn't even _bother _to get to know _me_."

I was listening so intently that I hadn't realized this was the end of his rant. I looked up slowly, hating the sadness he felt. "Have you talked to him about this?" I asked quietly. I knew it was over-said, but I couldn't think of any piece of advice that could help him.

"There's no point," he answered flatly. "He thinks he already knows who I am, and what runs through my head. The only thing I can do to change his thick-skulled, biased, senile mind is to be just like my father." I was surprised by the icy tones in his words, and the meanings behind them I was oblivious to.

His face was so furled, so unnaturally angry, that it actually hurt me. "…I'm sorry," I said finally, looking down at my closed book. "It must be hard for you, not having a choice in this. You deserve better."

His features softened ever so slightly. "I only wish my grandfather could understand that too," he sighed.

The quiet that filled the air was no longer awkward and uncomfortable, but appeased. He continued to read his book, seeming much less distracted. I made an effort to open mine back up and continue on, but I had no idea where I left off, and I didn't really care regardless.

"I should get going now," he murmured a few minutes later. He placed his book on top of the pile, not answering my theory of his sorting, and pushed his chair out. I wanted to tell him to wait as he set off slowly for the door, but my throat closed, out of words.

He stopped when he reached the threshold and turned, suddenly shy again. "Thanks for talking to me about this, Mary… I…usually don't talk about this with other people, but it…um, it felt like I could with you." He tugged on the nose of his hat, and I sensed a habit in the making.

"It's—it's no problem, really. I'm happy that you could…talk to me about it." My cheeks tightened; hopefully he didn't notice the double meaning in my words, and the small emphasis I'd put on _me_.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he reminded me, and took a step outside.

"Um, wait."

He halted instantly and turned around, eyes curious. "Um…tomorrow's Monday, right?" I asked absentmindedly.

He nodded instead of saying anything, and I imitated his gesture. "We're closed tomorrow…sorry."

"Closed?" For some reason, his noticeable disappoint made my heart flutter.

"Yeah. My father decided he wanted to have weekly family outings now…we're going down to Mother's Hill tomorrow for some fresh air."

"You're going with your family?"

I blinked. "Yes."

He seemed to dwell on that, thoughtful, and a knee-jerk reaction made me spit out more words. "Y-you can come, if you, if you, u-um, want," I mumbled quickly, my words tripping over each other.

There was another small gap of silence, unsaid words sprinting chaotically back and forth in my mind, and I was almost certain he'd reject my invitation.

"Sure." Familiar warmth, warmth present whenever he was, filled my chest. "I'll come by tomorrow morning." With another nod of farewell, he left, his walk light.

I sank into my chair, my heart flapping and dancing. That was when I realized he'd said my name, and I wondered rapidly if he'd been talking about me with someone else. It was an instant feeling of flattery, and then humiliation at what could have been said at my part. The happiness was overpowering and I found myself wallowing in it.

I hopped up from my desk, pushing the chair in with my foot and getting the lights. I would be closing early for the first time in over two years.

**xoxo**

A/N: You have no idea what I sacrificed to finish writing this. And you won't know, ever, otherwise you'll probably call me obsessive or something, haha.

The prologue of this story was written a few months ago, but I found myself continuing it when I was leafing through my documents. Also, since they are the most patient, most amazing writers I've ever met and grouped with, and since they are unhealthy lovers (I kid) of Gray x Mary, this is dedicated to _Kuruk _& _The Scarlet Sky_. This is probably a threeshot or something along those lines, since I cut it off before it could get too long, so stay tuned.

Lastly, and I swear this is it with my rambling notes, I haven't played FOMT in a long time—in fact, the version I played was hacked, lmfao—but I _think _Mary hung out at Mother's Hill with her parents on Mondays. Correct me if I'm wrong, because if I am, well, let's play pretend, guys.

-Erika.


	2. Part Two: Indecisions

_A/N: Sorry for the delay. I was meaning to post this earlier, but my laptop was being a jackass. I'm getting a new one that should be shipped here in a day or two…oh, and guess what? It's yellow! :D Anyway, here's some more Gray x Mary goodness._

...

_Part Two:_

**Indecisions**

I knew mistakes were inevitable, that everyone was bound to mess up one way or another many times in their lives, but I always found suffering in my mistakes. Perhaps that was what compelled me to make them time and time again: the pressure and fear of the suffering. Each mistake brought doubt, fear, resentment, guilt, negativity; sometimes a combination of them all.

Why, then, did I enjoy and indulge in _this _mistake? That instead of being swept away by the crashing tide of bitterness, the purity of the ocean of my conscience permeated the impurity, and the deeper I pushed the knife, the happier I grew?

I knew he was too good for me; that he was better than me in more ways than one, without even having to know _him_. I'd already figured out his skills that surpassed my flaws: he was more determined than I was, as a first; even though he spoke poorly of himself, I could hear the hopeful struggle beneath the surface of his frustrated tirades. Second: he was stronger, both emotionally and physically—that was obvious. And he was much better looking, as well. I thought back to all the times he'd gazed at my face, studied me with those hard, intense eyes, and hated what he probably thought about what he saw.

This was wrong, my dream book's fairytale ending was impossible, and the pain of predicted disappointment in the end was inevitable.

But I was just so incredibly happy, so naïvely gleeful that I could have the opportunity to spend my day with him, so glad that I was able to make myself oblivious to human reality, that I continued on with living a lie I was aware I'd created, waking up bright and early Monday morning and bounding down the stairs of my home.

"Morning, Mary," my father, Basil, greeted me. He was seated at the dining table, a book about wildlife in his hands, no plate in front of him.

"Morning. What, are we picking berries to eat today?" I teased at his lack of appetite.

He chuckled in reply, putting the book down for the first time and looking over at me. "You're in a good mood today," he observed.

My face turned bright red. I hadn't noticed, myself.

"Are you excited about our outing?" he guessed, smiling obliviously.

It was now or never. I only wished the opportunity hadn't come so early, my face turning an even brighter shade.

"About that…Dad…" I sat down slowly across from him. "Do you know the boy who works as apprentice at the blacksmith's?" I felt silly calling him a boy, but he was far from even appearing like a man. But I felt even sillier and awkward talking to my _dad _about this, of all people—yet I was also grateful; if my mother were here, I would die of embarrassment. Her questions would be endless, personal, and there was no way I could lie myself out of them. I could painfully imagine it now… _"Mary? Ooh, the boy at the blacksmith's? He's a cute one. Do you think he's cute?" _And then my inevitable blush, burning ruby in response…

I let the imagined scene in my head fade away, but the colour on my cheeks remained.

"The blacksmith's?" My father looked cryptic. "Oh, Saibara's boy…you mean Gray?" He continued on, as if I'd answered his question already. "Serious kid…doesn't talk much anymore…a quiet one…" My father appraised him absentmindedly, his voice fading into a mumble. Suspicion suddenly dripped in his voice as he asked the very question I wished he hadn't: "Why?"

The word rang in my ears. _Why_? It taunted me.

"Um…w-well," I stuttered, which was a dead giveaway, "I, um, invited him to our family outing today." There. I refrained from holding my breath with relief and anticipation of his response.

My father's face was insultingly bemused, but fortunately, calm. "Did you?" he said, not sounding angry or upset, really, but in a tone that didn't fit. "How'd you manage to do that?"

I frowned, wondering if he was mocking the boy I found so intriguing. "What do you mean, how did I manage to do that? I asked him if he wanted to come, and he accepted," I answered briskly, and for some reason, defensively. Why was I getting the nagging feeling my parent didn't approve of Gray?

…Gray. That was the first time I'd ever referred to him using his name. It seemed to suit him in a nondescript, explanation-void way. Gray…and Mary, I couldn't help but tack onto the end. I'd never admit it to anyone, but…

I liked the way that sounded, our names together. Gray and Mary…Mary and Gray.

"I know, I know. No need to get snappy with me. He 's just, well, really quiet, and not too many people in town really know him too well. I'm surprised that you—" He silenced quickly, and I averted extra attention to when he was cut off.

"What about me?" I stared into his eyes until I could force it out of him; I didn't do it often, but it was easy to get things out of my father that way.

"Well…you can be a bit…shy, at times," he murmured quickly, and suddenly he was staring down at the back cover of his book, more interested in it than he should have been.

That was nothing new. I could tell, myself, that I wasn't the most extroverted person ever. But what was he implying? "Go on," I urged, and an instinctive stirring inside of me gave me the feeling that I already knew what he was going to say.

"It's just that…usually…_opposites _attract, you know? Like the saying."

My jaw nearly dropped. I wanted to get the words out, but I was muted, and my protest came out as a soundless squawk.

He rambled on quickly, still looking at the book. "I mean, if you have two magnets, and you put the north end and the south end together, they _go_ together. But north and north—south and south—it repels." He hesitated, something he didn't do very often.

I looked down into my lap to keep him from seeing whatever expression was on my face, not that he would be looking up anytime soon. "W-we're not, not _attracted_, Dad," I sputtered, mortified. "We're just…friends, if barely. We had a nice talk at the library, and I didn't want to ruin his Monday plans by closing, so I asked if he wanted to come. That's it." I bit back the impulse that wished otherwise.

My father seemed surprised, but luckily, the topic at hand simpered. It had escalated way further than I had expected it to.

"Well…your mother should be back soon. You should go get some breakfast before we leave." His tone was twisted a bit with awkwardness, but normal otherwise.

Grateful for an escape, I noticed I had gradually risen an inch or two from my seat already, and turned red. I slid away from the table, searching for the milk and cereal.

At that instant, my mother Anna, the town gossip, burst into the room, and the silent atmosphere vanished in her presence. Her mouth had already been moving by the time she walked inside and sat down beside my father. I mumbled a greeting when I thought I heard my name being mentioned, and then she was off again, scolding my dad about his empty stomach, and how it would catch up to him later in the day.

I could actually comprehend one of her sentences. "So, Mary, I heard you invited Saibara's grandson to our outing today," my mother began, in a tone she used whenever she was hungry for information.

My stomach fell rapidly, my cereal tasting like a carpet. Where and how had she heard _that_? My father couldn't have informed her in the minimal time she'd spent here since she arrived home, but then again, who knew where she'd been earlier this morning. News got around too quickly in this small town.

I fell into a coughing fit, stalling my response."…Um, yes," I replied, purposely listlessly as my throat cleared. I could see this becoming a popular subject to pester me with, and for a split instant I regretted ever inviting Gray.

She was clearly not satisfied with my apparent uncaring attitude. "I've never seen you talk with him before, though."

I refrained from rolling my eyes. "He comes to the library, Mother," I said in a berating tone. She was so prying, so curious that sometimes it felt as if the role of mother and daughter had altered, I in her place.

"How often?" she asked instantly.

I bit my tongue, extracting a half-truth. "'Everyday' might set her off. "Quite often," I offered nonchalantly.

She gave up, finally, disheartened by my lack of cooperation on her part. "He's a nice boy," she finished dejectedly. "A little shy, though."

"That's what I said," I thought I heard my father mumble in the background, and shot him a look.

She had given up now, but I knew, as a fact, that I could not evade my own mother—or father—forever. Much less the ones I had.

I gulped down my cereal before standing up to rinse it in the sink.

"Excited, Mary?" my mother asked me.

"Mm-hmm," I murmured, surprised I had made it through the whole calm charade. _More than you'd know._

I turned the faucet and was drenched by a blast of uncontrolled, freezing cold water. The noise penetrated my mother's constant one, and completely blocked out my father's protective one.

Then there was a quick knock on the door, and my heart. My parents glanced at each other meaningfully and to my horror, my mother swept over and answered it.

When the door opened, I couldn't see Gray's face, but I could only imagine it as my mother smiled hugely and said, "Hiiiii, Gray! You look nice! Are you excited? We were just talking about you. We should be ready to leave soon—Mary, are you ready?"

"Y-yes," I stammered, meaning to pull away slightly from the sink but ending up tripping and sending my spoon sailing across the room.

Everyone stared at it as it clattered to the floor. I groaned.

**xoxo**

We exchanged our hellos, and after that, it felt oddly like we were in the library again, but without the books to quell the awkwardness. We didn't say another word to each other, though my lips were brimming with questions and observations and small talk. I glanced at him occasionally from the corner of my eye, and I did mean to say something, but it was just that my throat still felt muted, and either my mother or father kept shooting looks behind their shoulder at us, and I was unnerved.

We were almost at our spot on Mother's Hill, just passing the Goddess Pond, when my hand brushed against Gray's. My heart sank when he pulled away and tugged at his hat, and then my throat decided to unclog.

"Sorry," I murmured automatically.

"What? Oh…" He looked at my hand for an instant, and I blushed, reaching up to adjust my glasses.

"Do you come here often?" I nearly smacked myself. I hadn't intended it to come out like _that_. It was probably the worst pick-up line invented, next to the one related to the weather. I would deserve two smacks if I even mentioned the weather, I promised myself.

He seemed to take my question seriously and looked up at his surroundings. "Not really. My grandfather—he comes to the hot springs sometimes, though."

"Do you go with him?"

He shot me a disgusted look—not disgusted at me, but at my question. I got another urge to hit myself and my cheeks tightened against my teeth. "Right," I said stupidly.

We had arrived now, and my father and mother finally extracted themselves from us to examine flowers and the like, and Gray and I were adult supervision-free. It was all a matter of _now-what_.

"So…" We hadn't stopped walking, and we were heading for the mountain peak now, my legs robotic. I didn't know if my parents were watching, but probably not, since they hadn't said anything. "My father said you were a blacksmith."

"Yeah," he grunted. I waited for him to go on, but he didn't.

"What do you do?" I fiddled with the hem of my dress. "I have a book about blacksmithing, and I've read it but I'm still not very…" I trailed off, hoping he would fill in the blanks.

"We make tools, mainly. You know, farm tools. We upgrade them. And do pretty much anything related to a hot forge. Oh, and we make…jewellery." I could hear the blush in his voice.

"Jewellery?" I tried to imagine Gray making a delicate, tiny necklace, and failed.

"Well, I'm learning to. It's…hard. That's what my grandfather keeps pissing me off—bugging me about. I can do everything else, upgrade stuff, but just not that." I thought he would be giving me another rant, but instead, he continued on with describing his job. "I'm my grandfather's apprentice, by the way." _Been there, done that…_

He was watching me carefully, so I nodded in acknowledgment. "I moved in with him here when my parents left." _Been there, done…wait, what?_

"Your parents left?" I echoed, shocked.

"Yeah. A few years ago." He didn't elaborate.

"Um…I'm sorry." I really hated myself at the moment. Wasn't there anymore I could say? I didn't think we were close enough that I could ask him more about it, and I didn't know if this was the right time to ask at all. The nose of his hat blocked his face as he stared downward, so I couldn't tell what was going on past it.

I suddenly felt horrible for inviting him to our outing, where I would be with my own parents, who were still together and hadn't left me. He must have felt awful. I was such an idiot. _Idiot, idiot, idiot…_

"…Watch your step, Mary…"

I hadn't registered the first three words of his sentence, being so absorbed in his voice whenever he said my name, that I also didn't notice we were right at the edge of the mountaintop.

"…Mary?"

"What is—_oh_!"

I would've been embarrassed by how shrill and high my voice had gone, but the fear I felt surpassed it. Looking down into the hundreds of feet below me, I could feel dizziness wrap around me and pull me in like a magnet. I tried to resist it, and in such an attempt, my ankle twisted, and I stumbled forward in exaggeration when I once again saw the deep, vast valley of rocks just below the mountain terraces. My legs slipped like jelly and soon the surface was falling over my head—or possibly, the other way around.

I waited for my impending doom, for my heart to stop beating as I plunged into an abyss, but it stopped for a different reason.

I could swear my heartbeat stopped because, one, I had just fallen off a mountaintop, and two, because Gray had reached out and grabbed me by the arm.

I had read about this happening in books all too many times, but it was much more horrifying in reality. I told myself not to look down, and tried to distract myself with my ankle, which burned with pain, and my arm, which felt like it was being stretched against the rocks.

"Mary!" Gray shouted, and I winced at how scared he sounded. "Close your eyes—don't worry—I'll get you up," he promised.

I knew he was trying to soothe me, but I still couldn't hear his words for what they meant. They were just words to me, bouncing off my ears as they reached them. And I couldn't close my eyes—they were wide open and exposed in horror.

It was scary, just a tad bit, knowing I could've died five seconds ago.

"Give me your other arm," he demanded, his voice laced with mutual panic. I stared up at the spinning clouds, trying to obey. My other hand, which had been used to grip at the crumbling outer rock, dangled limply in an attempt to be raised.

The instant my hand left the rocks, I felt like I had just let go of the handles of my bike, as it gripped nothing but thin air. Danger thrummed in my veins and vertigo in my head; my feet jerked uselessly as they dangled off my body. Gravity, accompanied by an extra dose of fear, forced me to my demise; I could feel my arm weigh down, Gray's hand slipping past my wrist, and to…my hand.

Even when I was about to die, I could still feel embarrassment, and the greatest blush unfurled across my face. I was grateful no one could see it as I subconsciously tightened my grip around his hand. I held my breath, and the invisible walls around me were penetrated by a loud voice.

"Give me your other arm, dammit!" Gray shouted at me, and I was so startled that my unoccupied arm shot up automatically. I wasn't sure where it had landed or reached, but I felt another strong, rough hand grab my wrist and yank so hard it could have been dislocated.

My body heaved over the edge of the mountain like a fish being reeled into a boat; the process was rushed, and in no way gentle. The rocks scraped against my side, and my ankle exploded with pain as it touched against a strange platform…

The surface. My body flopped heavily against the surface, and my withheld breath exploded into bursts as I panted and gasped for the air that had been there the whole time. Funny, I had suffocated on air.

"Mary…?"

I blinked a few times. My cheek pressed against the hard, rocky ground. I glanced around at the little space my eyes were exposed to, and my peripheral vision showed me, sideways, a figure crouching protectively over me. "Gray?" I choked in a scraggly, uneven voice.

"Are you okay?" He wasn't wearing his hat for some reason, and though his bangs rained down his forehead, I could see his hard eyes staring into mine and nothing else.

"My ankle," I gasped, the pain spreading like poison. "It hurts."

He looked horrified, still. "I'm sorry."

I couldn't even ask why he was sorry, how he could've possibly, even for an instant believed my falling off a mountain was _his _fault, because my conscience slipped. I awoke to being shaken by the shoulders a few seconds later, and Gray's touch made my head spin.

"Don't fall asleep on me," he snapped. Then his tone went softer as he asked, "Do you want me to get your parents?"

"No!" I exclaimed, but my voice shrank as I realized how much yelling hurt my throat at the moment. "Please, please don't. They'll hate you."

He went quiet, and I noticed how deceiving that sounded. "It wasn't your fault," I assured him in a scratchy whisper, "but they'll still blame you. I know they will."

"But you're hurt," he pointed out, seeming torn between what I wanted and some other, second option.

"Don't," I begged him.

"Why do you care?" He heaved a sigh, and his hand, which was still pressed against my burning wrist, sank down. "It doesn't matter if they hate me. They probably already do."

"What are you talking…" I was cut off by my own low groan, and something stung on my cheek. A warm liquid slithered down past my chin and onto the ground.

"You're bleeding," Gray informed me quietly.

"A lot?"

"No, it's just a small cut."

I couldn't stand how lost he looked right now. "Okay," I gave up, "you can get my parents. But tell them that I fell, okay? On the ground. Over there." I pointed as far away from the mountain as I could. "I saw a flower I thought my dad would like, and I ran over to it, and I fell." I could feel his eyes on me, watching me. "There was never a mountain. We were never near a mountain. We were just off the trail…over there." I looked over in the direction, too tired to point this time. "You can use your imagination for how I got hurt." I saw him wince, and I regretted saying it. "Okay, Gray?"

I could hear his breath hitch, and he suddenly pulled away from me. My muscles throbbed where he had dragged me to safety. "Okay."

He was crouching there still, and I blinked. "Gray…?"

"I don't want to leave you."

The words felt like a lifeline to me. "Come on," I groaned, ruining the moment, my ankle tearing up.

He gave me a small, worried smile, before breaking off into a sprint before he could even grow erect. I watched his figure gradually shrink and then disappear down the trail, and then my mind disappeared all at once.

I dreamed about falling off the edge of the world.

**xoxo**

_A/N: I apologize for throwing Mary off a mountain. XD I hope that wasn't terribly out of character. _


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